


Princess Furball

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Forced Marriage, Princess Furball, Unbeta'd, allerleirauh au, attempted father/daughter incest, fairytale adaptation, jon x sansa remix day 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 08:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12077418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: When Sansa's father announces his intent to marry her, she attempts to trick him out of it, demanding impossible gifts. When her father inexplicably succeeds in fulfilling her requests, Sansa fakes her death and flees her father's kingdom in a coat of many pelts. Sheltered by her trusty direwolf, Lady, Sansa is found by the prince of a foreign realm, who christens her "Furball". The former princess hides out working in the king's kitchens as a curiously humanoid animal as war looms. But things change when two kings and a prince die...





	Princess Furball

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for day 3 of the Remix. You can view the graphic here: 
> 
>  

Sansa:

“You’ll be queen,” he whispers, eyes glittering like a toad’s, as he leans over her chair at the dinner table, “There is no higher match in the kingdom.”

 _Gods, no. No._ Sansa squirms in her seat, trying not to vomit up her lamb as his hands clasp about her shoulders. “It’s not right!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“And what’s not right about it, sweet daughter?” He asks, “Your mother, with her last breath, made me swear to only ever marry a woman as beautiful as herself. You’re the only one, Sansa. I’ve searched every kingdom in Westeros and Braavos as well. None but you surpass your mother’s face. And little Robin needs a mother.”

Sansa glances at her sickly little brother. He grins at her and stares at her breasts, though not with the same intent with which her father currently peers down her bodice. Mother, overjoyed at having a son at long last, fed him at her breast until her final day a year ago. Robin is eight now.  _My whole family is mad,_ she thinks,  _all of them._  Rumor was Queen Cersei has cursed every highborn maiden on the continent in some way or another. Sansa had been the woman’s ward, but had thought she’d escaped the black magic. Perhaps not.  _Will I lose my mind too?_

 _But not even the king can force his daughter to marry him. Well, not technically. He cannot force me at swordpoint, but he can force me to agree. He can throw me into the dungeon for years. He can terrorize the villages until I relent._  Sansa tries to think, and think hard.

“I… I have conditions,” she says.

Father strokes her neck and inhales sharply. “Of course, My Darling. Name them.”

“Three gowns, a cloak, and a pet.”

Father grins. “That’s it?”

“I’m not done,” Sansa says, leaning forward and taking a sip of red wine, “The first gown must be as golden and shining as the sun itself. The second must be as bright and mysterious and silver as the moon. The third must be a piece of the night’s sky and all the stars within it.”

Father’s grin wavers. “Is… Is that so?”

Sansa nods, beginning to feel more confident. “The fur must be made of every pelt of every bird and beast in the kingdom, save for one. I want a direwolf, Father. A direwolf of my very own to be my companion for all of my days. Bring me those things, and I shall be your bride.”

Once he’s stormed out of the hall, Sansa leans back in her seat in triumph. Even if he somehow did manage to deliver all she asked for, a direwolf--- a species that has not been seen in the kingdom for over a century--- will be her guard. He’ll never touch her.

Mad though he may be,  her father is clever, and to Sansa’s horror, he begins to make progress. He summons the world’s finest dressmakers, furriers, hunters, goldsmiths, and jewelers to the kingdom. Before long, he presents her with the first gown.

It’s surprisingly simple, yet no less effective with its floating panels of yellow silk and gold brocade. The gold is of every shade --- white, yellow, rose. It catches every angle and flash of light and gleams to the point where it hurts the eyes if you stare too long --- sunlight to wear.

 _This should be impossible._  Sansa swallows. “It’s lovely indeed, but there are two more gowns, a fur, and a friend you must bring me.”

King Petyr grins. “Just you wait, sweet girl.”

The evening he brings her a silvery-white masterpiece studded with diamonds, moonstones, and opals, she cries herself to sleep.

 _How? How?_  She wonders to herself when she sees the third one, a cascade of gemstones against the deepest midnight blue.  _How do they get the jewels to glow like that?_

The king takes pleasure in having her personally inspect every inch of the fur he brings her, to check every path against records of the plumage and coats of every creature native to their country. The hood is a grey wolf’s head.

Sansa relents miserably. “And where is my Direwolf, Father?”

He whistles, and to Sansa’s horror, a beautiful, immense, yet leashed and muzzled creature is led in. The only eyes Sansa’s seen as sad as this beast’s are her own. Her heart breaks for the creature. She reaches out to stroke its head, but Father yanks her hand back.

“That’s a wild animal, My Dear. I couldn’t possibly let you touch it until it’s been tamed. And I’m afraid that won’t be until well after the wedding.” The look in his eyes tell her there is no room for argument.

She waits two nights before acting. Just long enough for Father to grow complacent. She plans carefully. Sansa knows she cannot bring much, but she will bring her greatest treasures.

One is the gold signet ring of her House.

The second is a tiny gold spindle her mother gifted her before she died.

The third… The third breaks her heart. A golden fishing reel, from the days before her father turned lecherous and foul, and led her down to the pond and taught her to fish.

In her bag, she also brings the gowns. Moonlight, sunlight, and starlight disappear into her pack, and she wraps herself in the great fur.

With a cry, she cuts open her palm, spilling blood upon her sheets. Let them think her dead. Better her father try to hunt a murderer than a daughter-bride.

There’s only one more thing to do. Sansa sneaks down to the kennels and finds the poor creature her father captured. Holding her breath, she frees the beast, half-expecting it to maul her. _Still a better fate than the one my father plans for me._

To her surprise, though, the Wolf gives her a long look and at once, Sansa feels something. It’s as if they’ve known one another their whole lives. The direwolf approaches Sansa and presses her muzzle into the princess’s neck.

“You should not be so kind to me,” the princess whispers, “It is my fault you were dragged away from your home.”

The animal responds by licking Sansa’s face before padding towards the kennel exit. And Sansa knows she’s to follow.

Before wading across Wintertown River, Sansa cuts off her braid, leaving her hair to her ears like a boy’s and flings it and her nightdress into the water.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

**Three years later:**

Jon:

There are rare times that Jon wonders whether keeping Ghost is really worth the trouble.

He gasps for breath, cheeks scraped by icy air, as he and his mount finally come to a stop after chasing after his albino direwolf. It’s no easy thing to chase a direwolf, let alone one with a coat as white as the snow that surrounds them. If the hunting party is still trying to keep up, they won’t reach them for a while yet.

They come to leering, cliff-like rock formation in the middle of the woods, and it takes Jon a few minutes to figure out why Ghost appears to be digging and sniffing around the underside. His wolf knocks over some broken branches, and the next thing he knows, his friend is tackled backwards by a snarling grey she-wolf.

Not just any sort of she-wolf a Direwolf. With such a height, there’s no mistaking it. Jon looks on in awe. Ghost was the only direwolf anyone in the kingdom had seen in ages.

One would think that the animal would greet another of her species as a friend, but she fights as if….

 _Pups!_ Jon thinks hopefully. A litter of pups, surely. As the wolves fight, he dismounts, crouches down, and crawls towards the den.

He does not find a litter of pups huddled behind the branches. Indeed, he has no idea what he’s looking at. It looked like a wolf at first, until it raised its head and revealed what looked like the face of a woman sticking out from wide-open jaws. It's body was large and round, almost spherical, and coated with furs of every color and texture, along with…. Feathers?!

Jon scrambles back in terror. So does the creature. Its eyes are the deepest blue he’s ever seen, and he feels his heart soften. The prince crawls closer to it.

“It’s alright,” he says gently, extending his hand, “I shall not hurt you, I promise it. No harm shall come to you on my watch.”

The thing turns out to have hands, albeit filthy ones. It lets Jon help it out of the den, at which point the wolves stop brawling. The creature’s body, it turns out, is not quite spherical, but still multi-textured and lumpy. But it stands on two legs.

“Can you speak?” Jon asks it.

The creature coughs roughly. “Yes, though it’s been quite a while since I have.”

Certainly female, by the voice. The face looks feminine, but it is hard to be sure beneath the levels of grime.

To Jon’s astonishment, the thing dips into its own version of a curtsey with a certain, lumpy grace to it.

“What is your name?”

“I have no name anymore. I am a wolf.”

“That’s what you want to be called?” Jon replies, examining her coat, “There seems to be far more to you than just wolf.”

The being’s appearance is so unnatural. But both wolves, the bitch and Ghost, walk up to the creature and lick her hands. Ghost sniffs her and greets her with a wagging tail, like a packmate.

“You said you have no name anymore.”

“That is correct. But you still do, I expect,” Furball responds, “And poor, nameless creature that I am, it is proper etiquette for a lord to introduce himself.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. She is too well-spoken and too bold to be just some wild creature. He likes her boldness, though. He blushes and bows.

“I am Prince Jon of Valyria, Mistress.”

“Second son of King Rhaegar? Eldest of his children with Queen Lyanna?”

“Indeed!” This confirms it to him.

He’s heard of things like this many a time. Stories that he and his family used to dismiss as myths for children, but that was before his aunt hatched a new race of dragons and his younger siblings, Arya and Bran, began seeing through the eyes of animals.

 _She’s a lady of some sort, probably once very beautiful. She’s been cursed, though._  She wouldn’t be the only one of this generation, either. Indeed, many princess of this generation have suffered nasty fates. Princess Shireen of the Stormlands was cursed so her half her body turned mottled and grey. Princess Arianne and her father, King Doran, were cursed so that they could not say anything of true importance to one another. Princess Asha of the Iron Islands was chased from her lands by an evil uncle. Princess Margaery of the Reach was transformed into a rose by the cruel and jealous Queen Cersei of Casterly Rock, and it’s said the witch-queen performed a blood sacrifice to do it, for her own daughter, Princess Myrcella, was disfigured shortly after. Lady Stokeworth’s daughter, Lollys, was gang-raped by a mob, and Lord Hewett’s daughters suffered a similar fate by invading pirates. Lady Mormont’s eldest was butchered at a wedding. Beautiful, young, highborn women all across the continent have died, been cursed, or gone missing that these days most families are unwilling to let their daughters out of the house.

Jon eyes the poor being. “Tell me, what was your name?”

She bites her lip and steps back. Jon thinks of Princess Arianne. She may be cursed not to say. “It’s alright, you don’t have to tell me. Can you tell me how to break the curse?”

The creature shakes her head.

Before he can ask anything else, they’re interrupted by the sound of trumpets and approaching hoofbeats.

“Jon!”

Aegon and the rest of the hunting party stop a little further back than they might normally upon spotting the wolves. His brother looks as if he’s about to inquire after Jon’s condition, but his eyes fall upon Furball and nearly burst out of his head.

“What in the Seven Hells is that thing?!”

Jon blushes at his brother’s rudeness. “It’s---She’s---” He glances at Furball uneasily. What is she supposed to be, really? What exactly has this curse turned her into? She might call herself a wolf, but there’s an actual one here for comparison. Wolves do not have feathers, let alone the feathers of bluejays, cardinals, orioles, canaries, doves, ravens, and peacocks. To Jon, his new friend looked more like whatever witch had cursed her couldn’t make up her mind about what to turn the poor girl into, and ultimately settled on everything.

“She calls herself a wolf.”

“Ha! Wolves don’t have mink and rabbit pelts. More like Furball,” remarks Aegon.

“Aegon---!”

“---Call me whatever you wish, Furball is fine,” Furball responds, with an odd primness, “You cannot make me feel low, Prince Aegon.”

“Well, I imagine I can’t make you feel any lower than you already do, looking like that.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, I meant what I said. I do not mind having an ugly appearance whatsoever. Physical beauty in my experience causes more trouble than it is worth, even before it flees, but the value and potential of a good soul is everlasting and incalculable.”

“Says the woman raised by wolves.”

“I would not be able to speak to you thus, if that were the case,” Furball answers, “Though I wish it were.”

Jon clears his throat and walks over to Aegon’s mount, gesturing for his brother to lean over.

“I believe,” he murmurs, “That Furball may be another victim of a curse, like Princess Shireen, Arianne, or Margaery. She can’t seem to say it, but there are signs. She speaks as one who has received the finest education, she knows of our family, of courtly etiquette.”

Aegon’s indigo eyes flick upwards to give Furball another look. “An enchanted lady, you say?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Aegon smirks and slips down from his saddle, approaching the creature.

“Forgive my rudeness, Madam,” he says graciously, “It was highly unbecoming. I swear to you on my honor as a Targaryen, that I shall do whatever I can to help you.”

“I---Mmmmph!”

Jon’s jaw drops as his brother sweeps the creature up into a firm, passionate kiss, eliciting a groan from the rest of the hunting party. Jon nearly tackles his brother when he remembers --- stories about cursed princesses end with them being saved by a prince’s kiss. Or, at least, most of them do.

So Jon watches carefully, waiting for a flash of golden light or a sparkling fog or the arrival of a fairy with a magic wand to change this creature into a fair maiden.

But it doesn’t happen. Instead, the creature begins struggling, pushing Aegon away in horror. The She-wolf hurries forward, prompting Aegon to pull back, wiping his grime-smeared mouth in disgust.

“Foul!” He cries before spitting, “You’re no enchanted beauty! You’re just a freak!”

Tears are streaming down the creature’s face. “Don’t touch me! How dare you touch me?!”

Aegon, enraged and humiliated, looks to his guards. “Men! Cut this thing down! I want its pelt hanging from my wall by sundown!”

“NO!” Jon rushes between the creature and his brother. “Aegon, this creature is innocent! It has harmed no one! And you swore on your honor as a Targaryen to help it! Just because this being didn’t transform into a princess doesn’t render your oath meaningless!”

“You think I’m going to take this freak into my household?!”

“No,” Jon says firmly, “You don’t have to. I will.”

“Honestly, what is with you and strange pets?!” Aegon demands. “Well, we’ll see what Father says.”

Furball informs Jon that her wolf will not leave her side, and sure enough, the creature follows them back to the palace.

Father judges the creature from atop his throne, stern-eyed. “It seems tame, I’ll give you that, but I can’t have it frightening visitors. It would need to be kept out of sight. And it would need to perform some kind of service to us.”

“I can help in the kitchens,” Furball offers.

King Rhaegar wrinkles his nose. “You think I want you shedding in our food, Furball?”

“My coat does not shed, Your Majesty,” Furball responds adamantly, “I am not like other animals.”

“Fine, but if you’re to keep that wolf---”

“---There’s no alternative---”

“---You must sleep in the kennels with it.”

Furball gives that strange sort-of curtsy again.

“And if we find a single hair in our food---”

“---Cast me out, Your Majesty.”

“Good.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Furball:

The cook almost never lets her near the actual food, aside from the occasional tasks shelling peas or peeling potatoes. She mostly gives Furball cleaning work. 

That is, until Furball brings fresh salmon far finer than any the fishmonger offers to the kitchens one day, and the cook puts her to that task.

Sleeping in the kennels isn’t bad, either. She’s not considered a dog, she’s seen as a wolf, and the dogs keep their distance from the wolves. Lady --- her wolf--- and Furball have carved out their own corner of the pen and sleep every night wrapped around one another. She has access to clean water and proper plumbing now, and she’s laden their corner heavy with fresh straw.

Every night and every early morning before dawn, Sansa combs out her coat to keep it free of fleas and any fur Lady may have shed. At one point, she acquires a discarded servant’s dress. It allows her to slip out of the fur, cover her hair, and move about the castle grounds unnoticed to bathe properly.

The opulence of the Valyrian Court reminds her of home, albeit the walls and livery are strewn with different colors. She’s yet to see the dragons up close, as Princess Daenerys keeps them in a nest atop the nearby mountain. The castle is of the blackest stone she’s ever seen and have ceilings as high as the moon.

She’d been told growing up that she was lucky, as her family’s palace was one of the only ones with running water. But back home, the water ran through the walls to keep the rooms warm during the winter. Here, the water runs from spigots into basins. Grand rooms are lined with plush crimson carpet and the walls of the ballroom are gilded mirrors. Everywhere one looks there are depictions of dragons in sculpture, moldings, tapestry, and paintings. And that’s not counting the skulls --- some the size of a cottage, others as big as a woman’s fist --- that line the throne room.

Not that Furball spends much time in the grand chambers. Most of the royal family find her disturbing and repulsive, so she’s kept out of sight.

Furball is completely and utterly fine with that. It’s better that way. And even if she wasn’t afraid of being recognized by someone who knows King Petyr, the grandeur of the palace reminds her of home. She doesn’t want to be reminded of home. Indeed, when she does find herself in one of the public rooms or halls meant for highborn, her heart catches every time she turns a corner as she half-expects to run right into her father.

The kitchenworkers, on the other hand, seem to regard her as a sort of mascot or pet. They even reach out and pet her, and their children love trying to ride her. Furball draws the line at eating without utensils, receiving “treats”, or being treated like a dog and expected to do tricks. But she doesn’t mind entertaining the little ones or being petted. It makes her feel less alone.

Furball thinks she could make a life here. There’s only one problem.

The second prince, the dark one with the kind eyes who brought her here. Furball assumed he’d forget about her after a few weeks, but he doesn’t. He drops by the kennels and the kitchens a few times each week, usually to ask her questions. Does she have any parents? How’d she meet Lady? Can she read? Who taught her? He tries to place her accent and, to her dismay, gets as close to realizing she had to be from somewhere in the Riverlands, or the Vale or North. Impressive, as Sansa had spent a chunk of her childhood as a ward in the Crownlands, and had picked up some of their affectations.

She knows what he’s after. Despite that foul kiss from his brother proving fruitless, it seems he still thinks her a maiden beset by an evil spell. He doesn’t ask her to confirm or deny it directly, as he believes she’s prevented from telling him. But he tells her his theories and asks her for whatever details might help him figure it out.

“My brother thinks you’re just some strange beast because his kiss didn’t work, and in stories, princes break spells on princesses by kissing them. But I’ve checked, and it’s more complicated than that. Many times, even though it’s a prince kissing the maiden, the story says it’s actually ‘true love’s kiss’ that breaks the spell. The man being a prince is incidental,” he explains to her one morning as they lug pails of milk from the barns to the kitchen. She’d insisted to him that if he was going to pester her, he should at least help out. And to her shock, instead of having her whipped for her insolence, he readily agreed. It certainly made chores easier. “And not even true love’s kiss is the answer to every story. Sometimes, it’s reaching a certain age that breaks the spell. Or the collection of some magical artifact, solving a riddle, or enduring some sort of trial, like walking over hot coals or reclaiming a kingdom from a tyrannical usurper.”

Another time, while salting meats, he tells her, “I think whoever cursed you must be very, very powerful indeed. My little brother Bran has visions, you know, of the past and future. I asked him to look for the time you were cursed, and what magic is needed to cure you. He couldn’t find either. So the witch or sorcerer who did this to you must be able to repel visions.”

Furball knows she should put an end to this. That she should scream and shout for him to leave her be, refuse to answer one more question, or even leave. But she can’t.

For one thing, she knows he’ll never find her out. There’s no magical curse, no sorcerer, no witch. No one did this to her. Not if his psychic brother finds nothing.  _My family is just mad without magic._

For another, she’s lonely, and he makes her feel less so. She gets the distinct impression that the reason he takes such an interest isn’t because he wants to be a hero, or learn magic, or even that he wants to marry her if she turns out to be a princess after all. He actually wants to help her. It’s why he also helps her with the milk-gathering, potato-peeling, sweeping, dough-kneading, and dish-washing.

He never tries to pet her, or treat her like an animal. He treats her like a person. An interesting person, not simply someone he pities.

As a princess, Sansa grew up with people wantings things from her. Robin was born when she was eight, and for a long time, she was the heir to her father’s throne and many were sure it would stay that way, given her mother’s rate of miscarriages and stillbirths. People were eager and excited to be friends and mentors to the next queen.

Then, when Robin was born, all of a sudden, her “friends” seemed to lose interest in her. She was no longer heir to the throne, no longer the future monarch. Now her future was to be married off to some foreign prince. All attention shifted to the crown prince. Robin was sickly, too, so he garnered even more time and attention. Mother utterly doted on her son devoting every moment to him, seeming to forget about her daughter entirely. Sansa was sent away for three years to the Crownlands, with the expectation that she’d marry the Crown Prince Joffrey until a war broke out and his family decided the princess of the Reach secured a better alliance for them and Sansa was returned (not that she minded, given poor Margaery’s fate and the fact that both Joffrey and his mother were foul people).

It wasn’t until she reached a certain age that she began to get noticed again. By men.

Over the years Queen Lysa grew stout and wrinkled from her many pregnancies, though she’d been a renowned beauty in her youth. All that was left of that beauty by the time Sansa began to blossom was her thick, blood-colored hair. Sansa had inherited that hair, and her mother’s big, blue eyes (now squinted with age), and high cheekbones. As a child, Sansa would look at portraits of her young mother --- Father had commissioned dozens --- and prayed to be so lovely. But as she came into her maidenhood, people, including Father, had declared her to be even lovelier than Lysa at her prime. And before long, Sansa herself saw what they meant.

Queen Lysa didn’t like this. The passion between her and Father had long since fled, as did her popularity with the courtiers. The lords and ladies were uncomfortable with how their queen never hesitated to unlace her bodice regardless of time or place, and feed her well-past-infancy-aged son at her breast. Even when she wasn’t actively nursing him, the milk seeped into her clothes and clung to her, so everywhere she went she carried the scent of spoiled dairy.

She’d sustained her ego with the attention of singers and poets, but once her daughter started approaching womanhood, those attentions were diverted as well. Songs originally written for Queen Lysa were sung for Princess Sansa, and Lysa knew it. She began ordering the maids to bind back her daughter’s breasts every morning, made sure every gown had a high collar and lacked a proper silhouette. If her daughter responded to anyone’s attention, Lysa would pull her aside at the earliest opportunity and call her a hussy.

It was clear to the whole court that the Queen was poisonously jealous of her daughter. But that didn’t stop any of the men there from trying to flirt with her. Why should they care that they were provoking the queen into punishing the princess for being noticed? There are few prizes greater for a vassal than a bonny royal bride. They didn’t stop, even when she’d plead for them in whispers to step back, not upset the queen… They’d laugh at her, and tell her she was made to be loved, to savor this time and attention as it lasts...

“Please,” she remembers begging Harry Hardyng as he spun her around the dance floor, lowering his hand below her hips, “My mother is watching, and she’ll be furious with me!”

“Don’t worry, Sweetling, I’ll protect you from Mummy’s wrath.”

They never did. No one ever did, except...

_“Lysa, Seven Hells, get your hands off of our daughter!”_

Father was her savior, for he intervened on her behalf several times. Mother would threaten to whip or flog Sansa for her “wantonness”, but never did, because Father would not allow it. Father seemed proud of her daughter’s beauty, calling attention to it at every opportunity. He’d buy her beautiful things, and insist she wear them to banquets and balls. And if the boys got a bit too enthusiastic, he was quick to step onto the dancefloor, grab her by the waist, and pull her into a dance. He kept her close, kept his hands firmly upon her. The more Mother seemed to hate Sansa, the more Father seemed to love her.

And all he ever wanted from her were kisses, and for her to sit on his lap and…

Sometimes, in her darkest moments, she wonders how much Mother knew, if this was the intent of her dying wish. _Promise that you’ll only ever marry a woman as beautiful as I was in my youth, Petyr… Did she realize what her husband might do?_

 _No_ , Lysa was obsessively controlling of her husband. Anyone having him again, let alone her daughter was her worst nightmare. Something she would not accept even in death. And she thought too well of the king to think him capable of such perversions. She wanted to go down in history as Petyr’s only love, only queen, who mourned her for the rest of his life.

As Sansa, she was only ever desired, only the subject of lust and ambition.

Now, as Furball, well… Yes, most look at her as a freak, or a pet. But no one is ever kind to her with ulterior motives. She’s not beautiful anymore, either.

What she is, is useful and fascinating. Especially to Jon, whose opinion she’s come to value more than anyone’s. He tells her things. How he also feels ill-favored and often unnoticed. How his brother is resentful and jealous towards Jon, his mother, and his younger siblings because their father married Queen Lyanna so soon after his first wife’s death. How he’s not sure what his place is. How he finds nearly everyone at court duplicitous and vapid. Gods, how she can relate.

He’s thoughtful, patient, and kind, not to mention brave. Lady likes him, so he’s trustworthy.

As Sansa, she’d be a princess to him. But as the ugly, freakish Furball, she’s a friend.

Despite herself, though, she finds that she wants to be more. He may not be as gloriously platinum-haired and purple-eyed as his preening brother, but he’s handsome in a dark, dreamy way. Gods, when he smiles…

When he smiles, she must literally bite her own tongue to keep from telling him everything.

But she can’t. Never.

It’s not Jon’s fault. It’s not about him. It’s about his father, and his brother. If Jon knew the truth, he’d want to restore her to the comfortable life a princess is due, he’d want to help her. But he’s the second son of an imperious and powerful king. Rhaegar and Aegon would learn the truth and then…?

The Targaryens had a history of what they called “Divine Blood Matches”. Incest. Rhaegar’s parents and grandparents were siblings. The founder of their kingdom took both his sisters as wives, as did many Targaryen kings since. Some married their nieces. Rhaegar might decide that he wants the support and friendship of the King of the North and Vale, and see no issue with him marrying his daughter. He might deliver her back to Father in exchange for an alliance.

Even if he didn’t, even if he was kind and gallant… Father wouldn’t accept it. One thing both of Sansa’s parents had in common was how extreme they were over people they wished to possess. Father had crafted gowns of the sun, moon, and stars, a coat of every fur and feather, and muzzled a direwolf to marry his own daughter. Not only was Sansa supposed to be his, but if he learned the truth, he’d be humiliated. That was one thing he would not stomach.

He was power-hungry, too. The North wasn’t originally his domain, but that of Mother’s family, and was to be inherited by mother’s brother, Edmure. Father had originally tried to marry Mother’s older sister, Catelyn. However, Catelyn was promised to another and married another lord. There were rumors soon after about Mother and Father. And, in truth, Sansa was born very, very soon after her parents married. Even she’d heard the whispers. Uncle Edmure, her grandfather, and Aunt Catelyn and her family died when Sansa was very, very small, leaving Mother to inherit. And Mother immediately ceded the North to her husband, making him king of two realms.

Sansa was in denial about all this until the day Father said he’d marry her.

If--- no, when--- he learned that his daughter wasn’t dead, but was living in the Valyrian court? He’d accuse them of kidnapping and harboring her all these years and declare war. He’d try to invade and steal their throne.

He’d hurt Jon.

 _No_. Furball cannot tell Jon. As long as Father lives, she remains a freak.

A year and a half passes. It takes half that time for Furball to admit that she’s in love with the prince. For nine moons, she cries herself to sleep nightly.

Ten months in, the Crownlands and Westerlands conquer the Stormlands and officially ally themselves with the Iron Islands. Queen Cersei and King Euron, both powerful sorcerers, seal their alliance with a marriage. Valyria is forced to formally enter the war on the side of the Reach. Dorne does as well.

King Rhaegar and the two princes fly into battle. For three months, the Furball prays to any god that will listen to bring Jon back to her.

The gods do listen, but while Jon returns, arm fractured in three places, his father and brother do not. Jon is crowned King of Valyria. King of Valyria and nothing else. He can no longer be a friend to his Furball.

She wasn’t supposed to be in the council chamber that morning. That was Tessa’s job, but she fell ill and the Festival of the Three Dragons was coming up, so Furball was made to wash the windows as the Small Council met. Aside from a couple of curious glances as she ran a wet rag along the glass, the great lords paid her no notice as they filed in and took their seats. For a moment, she does catch the new king’s eye. He’s never looked so sad.

Furball is no spy, but she was trained in statecraft, and she can’t help taking an interest in their discussions. It’s not as if she’s going to tell anyone. She goes about her task, trying to draw as little attention as possible.

“...The spice trade has become flooded…”

_Good, we’ll get some seasonings cheap, at least._

“...Cersei made a mistake. She launched an offensive into Dorne…”

 _Yes!_  Wonderful news. Dorne is a death trap to anyone who isn’t native to it. The Dornish were famous for their defensive warfare. All they had to do was barricade themselves in the Sand Hills, and Cersei’s army would die of thirst.

“...King Petyr of the North and the Vale, died last night of pneumonia at age seven-and-forty, leaving his only son, Robin, age twelve, to succeed him, with Lord Nestor Royce as Lord Protector. His Grace Robin of House Baelish and House Stark, Second of His Name, King in the North, King of the Mountain and the Vale, Lord of the Eyrie and Winterfell, Lord of Winterfell, Defender of the Vale of Arryn and Protector of the Realm, Long May He Reign.”

The rag lands right into the pail of water from the top pane of glass, causing half of the bucket’s contents to splash out. The ladder sways, and Furball barely manages to grip the dragon’s head molding at the top in time to save herself from falling.

She clutches herself still, gasping. Every head in the room turns toward her.

“F-forgive me, My Lords!” She cries, “A… A bird seemed to be flying right towards the window. I thought it would collide and I lost my balance!”

“You’re not usually so clumsy, Furball,” the king remarks.

“It was a very large bird, Your Majesty! I’m so sorry!” She begins easing herself down the ladder. “I’ll clean this up at once!”

“See that you do.”

As she scrubs the floor and heads back to the kitchens, Furball processes this news. Father is dead. Robin is king. Father is dead.

 _I’m free,_ she thinks, _I can tell Jon and…_

 _...No._ Now that the king is dead and a sickly boy is in his place, there will likely be scores of imposters expected to appear and lay claim to her title. She’s Heir Presumptive to both kingdoms until Robin marries and produces a child, and that won’t be any time soon, especially if he’s still sickly.

She has the treasures, of course. She’s kept them in a sack tied to her belly for nearly five years now. But people think Princess Sansa is dead, and they know that her “murderer” stole her treasures that night. There’s no reason she wouldn’t be suspected of being a thief.

 _Robin will need you…_ He’s king now, surrounded by the same grasping court that once turned deaf ear to Sansa’s troubles. She can’t leave him alone anymore. She’s been selfish long enough.

But to prove herself, she’ll need more than the treasures. She’ll need to prove herself a princess and attain an advocate at court.

_...And supposing you manage that. What then? You return home and… what? What’s to stop any of those same lords from taking you as their wife and killing your brother? Your father nearly married you. What’s to stop Royce or Corbray or Hunter or Hardyng from taking you as a bride? Even if Rhaegar believed you, why should he risk anything to protect you? Especially when war is looming?_

She can think of one way to prevent that. As long as she plays this right.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

The daytime events of the Festival of the Three Dragons have always been his favorite. The games, the hunts, the competitions… The evening ones… Less so. He’s never been particularly keen on dancing or mingling. Aegon shined during events like these, which only made Jon shrink back more. Even if he tried, he’d be compared to his charismatic god of a father and be found wanting.

Aegon and Father are gone, and everyone can clearly feel their absence. Rhaenys, bless her, tries to entertain. Mother discreetly covers his hand with hers beneath the table.

When he closes his eyes, he sees them fall from the sky. He sees Aegon sink into the Trident River. Jon had tried so hard, ripping off his armor as fast as he could and diving in after him. Every inch of him burned in the effort to bring his brother back to the surface. He did everything --- pumped at his heart, tried to breathe air into his lungs, called the maester. But he wouldn’t wake up.

Those indigo eyes, those eyes that left every lady at court short of breath, just stared up at him blankly. Lifeless.

Father’s eyes were a brighter purple, but just as lifeless.

Now Jon is king. So he doesn’t have time to talk to anyone about this. He doesn’t have the freedom. He has to keep the kingdom afloat. Daenerys and Arya are finer commanders than Father and Aegon were, and the war is going well under their watch. Jon is wracked with guilt that he’s here, at a party while they’re in the fields. The maesters insist he’s not nearly healed enough to return to battle, but he suspects that his mother’s gold might be contributing to that opinion a bit.

“The best thing you can do to keep us safe now,” his mother tells him, “Is use this time out of commission, find yourself a bride, and get to work at providing an heir.”

She’s not wrong. Bran has been crippled for years, he’ll never have children. After him, it’s Uncle Viserys, that mad, grasping toad, on the throne. Jon intends to amend the law to fix that and place Rhaenys and Arya ahead of his uncle, but to do that he has to assemble and persuade a great council, and that’s impossible with the current war. If Viserys inherits, Valyria is doomed. Hell, he’d probably join Cersei and Euron on the promise that they’d share their empire. Viserys would certainly be stupid enough to fall for it.

 _Damn Petyr,_ he thinks, not for the first time. If that power-hungry snake had joined the war before he died, they’d have had the North and Vale and the war might already be over. Wars are like fires. Immediate, decisive, intense efforts to put it out work best. Slow, weak response allows it to spread to the point where it consumes everything.

Granted, Father had dragged his feet in response, too, Jon thinks uncomfortably. Rhaegar Targaryen always had a bad habit of sticking his head in the sand until a situation became a crisis.

Lord Royce, King Robin’s Lord Protector, had formally pledged its support and sent men, and it’s certainly made a difference. But so many more lives could have been spared if they’d taken action earlier.

Father had been waiting on the North and Vale to pledge themselves. He insisted that King Petyr was a clever man, that his kingdom(s) had flourished under his rule, and that Valyria should follow that example. If Cersei was truly a threat, then King Petyr would join.

Petyr Baelish was as much a coward and a snake as Viserys. Good with coin, but he’d gained his second kingdom under very questionable circumstances, and he did nothing unless it directly benefitted him. And if even a tenth of the tales Jon has heard about the man are true...

The men from the kingdoms are useful, but their new king is weak and sickly and without close relations. His aunt and uncle died without living issue. And his sister, Princess Sansa, was murdered by the same curse Queen Cersei cast on all the highborn beauties in the continent. His current heir presumptive is a second cousin.

Things are delicate, very delicate. Things will be less delicate if he finds a wife. Problem is, he has no idea how to talk to women.

Truly talk to them, not flatter and flirt with them like Aegon did. Speak to them in a way that allows him to see them, them to see him, and move past all the barriers of politics and rank. Jon has always been solitary, and has issues connecting with both sexes.

Now every woman in this room either wants to be his bride, or has a daughter/sister/niece/cousin they want him to wed. He has no idea how to handle such a thing.

Mother, Arya, Ghost, and Furball are the only ones he’s ever felt understood him. His mother, sister, his wolf, and a strange, unidentifiable humanoid creature that calls herself a wolf. What does that even say about him?

_Nothing good, certainly._

Gods, when was the last time he even spoke with Furball? Aside from the accident in the council chamber a few days ago.

He misses her terribly.

But he can’t think about that now. He has to get up and dance. It’s the Feast of Vhagar.

He’s not a good dancer, but he doubts the debutantes will care.

As he gets to his feet, the music stills. He thinks it’s for him until he looks up and his heart stops.

Standing atop the entrance steps is a what is a real-life fairy, goddess, or, at the very least, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

She could be mistaken for the moon itself if not for the waves of blood-colored hair that tumbles about her shoulders. The gown she wears is as rich as any he’s ever seen, a silvery-white brocade studded with gleaming gems.

 _I know her,_  Jon thinks, trying to place her face.  _But how can I? If I’d seen her before, I would remember everything about it. Maybe I’ve met a relative? Or perhaps we were children when we last saw each other?_

“Mother,” he murmurs, “Who is that?”

“I… I don’t know. I could swear I’ve seen her face before, but…”

Breathless, Jon hurries over to his elder sister. “Rhaenys, who is that?”

“I can’t remember. I know I’ve seen her face somewhere, but…”

Rhaenys never forgets a face or a name. The footmen don’t announce this woman. Everyone gapes. The silence slowly descends into whispers. Jon finds himself climbing the steps. What else can he do? The closer he gets to her, the more he feels like he’s flying straight towards the moon.

He approaches her and bows, and she sweeps into a curtsey so graceful it looks like a dance.

“Greetings, My Lady,” he says, “I--I am King Jon.”

“Yes, I know,” she replies, lip curling, “An honor, Your Majesty.”

“What?”

“I said, I know who you are. What would I be doing here if I didn’t?”

That’s a good question. He laughs nervously. Her eyes are so blue, and her smile is so sweet. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage then. What is your name?”

“Call me Alayne.”

“Alayne of House---?”

“Arryn.”

Jon is certain he’s heard the name before, but he was never good with heraldry. “I’m enchanted,” he confesses, “Truly. M-may I have this dance? That is, if you can tolerate me as a partner. Honor dictates that I warn you of my incompetence.”

“Might it help if I lead, then?” She asks.

“You can lead me wherever you wish, Madam.”

A good answer, as it turns out. Whatever skills he lacks, Alayne more than makes up for, and they seem to sail around the floor. The song ends, but Jon doesn’t let go. He’s always hated dancing, thinking it frivolous. Now he loves it, and thinks it the most important activity a man can engage in.

After three sets, she leans in, “Don’t you think it would be good manners to ask a couple other fine ladies to dance?”

“It would, but I can’t,” he answers.

“Why?”

“Because I’m afraid the moment I let you out of my sight, someone else will sweep you up and you’ll disappear from my life forever.”

Jon isn’t sure where his senses have gone, but he doesn’t miss them. He doesn’t care that he sounds like a perfect love-struck dolt.

She raises a hand to her mouth and laughs. “You’re quite silly, for a king.”

“I wish that were true. I could probably use a bit more silliness.”

Her face falls slightly. “I’m sure. You wear the weight on your shoulders upon your face as well, Your Majesty. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it as surely as I can see your kindness. I hope that kindness is never crushed under that weight.”

He stares at her, dumbfounded. “Lady Alayne, forgive me, but--”

“---Oh, gods, I’m utterly parched!” She exclaims, “Shall we have a cup of wine?”

“Of course!” He fetches two cups from a nearby table and they move to a more quiet corner. “I was going to ask you if we’d met before.”

The lady takes a long sip, then nods.

“We have! Where? When? I can’t believe I forgot!”

She pouts. “Neither can I, Your Majesty. I’m offended. I don’t think I should tell you.”

“Please,” he pleads, wracking his mind, “Give me a hint, at least.”

“I’d rather give you a night to sober up and remember yourself. Maybe you’ll recall once your head has stopped spinning,” she replies, setting her cup aside. “Now, I must go.”

“No, not yet---”

She grins, “Don’t worry, you’ll see me again before you know it.”

She dashes away in a silvery flash. Jon hesitates to chase her, and he hesitates for too long, it seems, as she vanishes into thin air.

The king spends the whole night distracted and retires early. He dreams of Lady Alayne all night.

His only distraction from thoughts of her come from his breakfast. He’s always taken simple porridge in the mornings, but when he dips his spoon into the bowl, he hits something.

Stunned, Jon quickly fishes whatever it is out. At first, he’s not sure what he’s looking at. It’s only when he’s wiped the off-white slime from it that he realizes he’s holding a tiny gold miniature of a spinning wheel.

He demands the cook be brought to him, but the woman is as confused as he is. “Furball is the one to ask, Sire. She prepared your breakfast this morning.”

Surprised, Jon has his friend brought before him. She looks at him imploringly.

“Forgive me, My King,” she begs, kneeling, “The spindle is indeed mine. I dropped it in your bowl, and by the time I realized it was gone---”

“---Where did you get something like this?” It’s not a cheap ornament.

“It’s a keepsake from home.”

“And where is ‘home’, again?” He demands, then remembers. “Right, I see. Well, Furball, accidents happen. Just be a bit more careful next time.” He hands it back to her, and she waddles off.

For the rest of the day, he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he knows, floating just below the surface of his consciousness, that he can’t quite get at. It bothers him for hours, until the Banquet of Meraxes begins. He’s going to see Alayne.

She makes another stunning arrival. Her gown is not so sumptuous as the one from the previous night, but it’s deceptive in its simplicity. If her prior dress had been the moon, this one is the sun, flashing every shade of gold imaginable. Jon feels like he’s basking in her light.

Something else flashes in his mind, from the back. What was it she’d said last night? About his head spinning?

“Tell me where we’ve met,” he begs her. She frowns.

“You still haven’t caught on?” She sighs. “Excuse me, Sire. I promise I’ll be back before you realize.”

“No, wait---!”

Gone.  _Seven Hells._

It comes to him at breakfast. Once again, he finds a golden object in his porridge. A fishing reel.

 _Not possible,_ he thinks, but he calls Furball before him.

Looking at her, though, he starts to doubt himself. No. This… This can’t be right. He’s imagining things. There’s no way this strange, fat, round, fuzzy creature is connected to the ethereal Alayne. And yet…

“Furball,” he asks, “Is there something I’m not… catching onto?”

Her mouth twitches, but her eyes remain innocent. “I’m not sure, Your Majesty. But if there is, I have full confidence that you should catch on quick.”

“You know Lady Alayne, don’t you?”

Her face falls slightly. “Yes. But I dare not betray her secrets.”

“Can you give her a message for me, at least?”

“I suppose.”

“Tell her… Tell her that I’m hers: mind, body, and soul.”

“Are you sure, Your Majesty? You’ve only known her for two nights.”

“No, I’m certain it’s been longer, even if I can’t remember how long.”

“Very well, Sire.” Furball rises. “I must get back to the kitchens.”

At the Feast of Balerion, Alayne arrives as a starlit sky. Jon wastes no time in sweeping her into his arms. “Who would have guessed you were hiding such richness beneath those furs all this time?”

Her faces lights up, brighter than any star. “You’ve caught on, Your Majesty.”

“To a couple of things, yes,” he says, marveling at her, “But there’s still so much I don’t understand. Who are you, really? Where did you come from? Why reveal yourself now, like this?”

“It’s complicated,” she murmurs.

“The curse.”

“No--- yes! It’s… It’s not as simple as that. And I can’t tell you everything here, now, surrounded by everyone. But… You will have answers, I swear. In the morning.”

This time, he doesn’t protest when she flees. In the morning, he looks through his porridge and finds a gold ring. Engraved upon it is a bird and a wolf.

Jon knows the sigil, because he’s been reading reports sealed with it for months. It all starts coming together. Frantically, he calls for someone. This time, though, it isn’t Furball. It’s his Master of Whispers.

“Yes, Sire?”

“Varys, do we still have intelligence reports from around five years ago?”

“I archive everything, Your Majesty. Is there a particular place you want to research?”

“The court of King Petyr. Specifically, anything and everything pertaining to the murder of Princess Sansa.”

“Of course, My King, but I should warn you… There are many, many conflicting reports on the matter, as with most intelligence from the Vale. The King was excellent at counter-espionage and obfuscation. Is there anything in particular you want to know?”

“It’s about the circumstances leading up to the princess’s death and things reported missing. She was to be married, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember who she was to marry?”

Varys sighs. “Like I said, Majesty, there are conflicting reports. Some say to her cousin Harrold Hardyng. Others claim it was to Tommen Baratheon. Yet more say it was to Tyrion Lannister, brother to Queen Cersei. Willas Tyrell, Crown Prince of the Reach. A more distasteful rumor says it was her own father who was the bridegroom.”

Jon’s stomach lurches. He remembers that morning in the Small Council chamber. “Varys, aside from speculation that she was cursed by Cersei, was there any motive proposed to the murder?”

“Some say it was theft, Sire. That many treasures were missing from the princess’s chambers, including her wedding gown.”

“What about… say… ornaments?”

~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

She dons her gown of stars and her fur coat open, and lets her hair hang loose when she’s summoned to the throne room. She carries the rest of her things over her shoulder. She’s a bit disheveled, but that hardly matters. If she knows Jon (and she does), he’s worked it all out by now.

There are whispers and murmurs as she makes her way down the aisle. Much of the court was aware of her before: the king’s furry little curiosity that he took in as a young prince. The one with the heads of both a wolf and a woman, the pelts of rabbits and bears, the feathers of kingfishers and cardinals.

Sansa sweeps into a deep curtsey before the throne. She looks at the floor, waiting.

Jon’s voice, that familiar, deep, rasp, thunders out from his high seat. “You have come into our home under false pretenses, Madam.”

“I was brought into your home, Sire,” she says, meeting his gaze, “You took me here, I never asked to come. You and your wolf invaded my den as part of a hunt, your brother forced a kiss on me, and you brought me here.”

There are murmurs. Jon goes red. “But you offered your services to my father when we arrived.”

“I did. And I provided every service promised. I was a loyal and hard-working servant.”

“Indeed. But you were never a servant, truly. You are a princess. You are sister to our ally King Robin of the North and the Vale, Princess Sansa of House Stark and House Baelish, long thought dead.”

“Yes. I was a fugitive, you see.”

“From who?”

“From my Father.”

“And why did you run away from your father?”

“Because he intended to marry me.”

There’s complete outcry throughout the hall. Jon has to shout and stamp his feet for silence. “Your Highness, if you would recount the rest of your experiences since then?”

Sansa does, calmly. She pauses patiently for whenever more murmurs and exclamations break out.  This is often, but when she finally finishes, the hall is silent.

Jon stares at her for several seconds. “Tell me, Your Royal Highness, why is it that you chose to trust me with your secrets, of all people?”

“Because I’m in love with you, Sire.”

His face breaks into a smile. Then, as if he’s not speaking atop an immense throne before a crowd of aristocrats, he says, “Oh, good. I did hope the feeling was mutual. Well, then, it seems I’ve found my perfect bride.”


End file.
